


The Fisherman's Shadow

by cuttooth



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (not the dogs they're fine), Animal Death, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, M/M, Mention of Real Murders, Murder, References to Suicide, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 08:52:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16720212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/pseuds/cuttooth
Summary: "There is a story that Hannibal remembers, from when he was very much younger. In the story, a man's shadow was not merely the shadow of his body, but the body of his soul. Soul and body distinct but conjoined, inseparable except by violence."This is not a fairy tale.





	The Fisherman's Shadow

**Author's Note:**

> An alternate version of the three year gap between Digestivo and The Great Red Dragon. Very heavily inspired by "The Fisherman and His Soul" by Oscar Wilde, which is a beautiful, dark and sad children's story that I recommend reading. All the quoted passages are from that story. 
> 
> Per the tags, this does contain violence, references to cannibalism, suicide, and real life murders, animal cruelty / death, and extremely unhealthy relationship dynamics. Also plenty of Hannibal's Opinions About Stuff, which do not reflect mine.

_ "What men call the shadow of the body is not the shadow of the body, but is the body of the soul."_

There is a story that Hannibal remembers, from when he was very much younger. In the story, a man's shadow was not merely the shadow of his body, but the body of his soul. Soul and body distinct but conjoined, inseparable except by violence. Now in the Uffizi Gallery, looking at Will, this story long packed away in a dusty chest of memory comes once again to mind. 

Hannibal drinks in the sight of Will's cut and bruised profile, hoarding memories in case this is the last time he gets to see. It is enough to make his heart swell against his ribcage. The sound of Will's voice, its timbre well-remembered yet always novel, is infinitely more musical to Hannibal's ears than any symphony he can bring to mind. Being in the same room with him is nearly unbearable.

_The two of us, inseparable_ , he thinks, but which is the soul, which is the shadow?  

***

Will says: "I'm curious whether either of us can survive separation."

Will says: "I'm not going to miss you."

***

Will looks exhausted, deeply and terribly tired, the bruising around his eyes only partly from the rough treatment he endured at Cordell's artless hands. His voice holds the quiet calm of a man who has moved far beyond fear and pain. His gaze is steady as he speaks.

"I'm not going to find you."

_Inseparable except by violence_ , Hannibal recalls once more, but it had seemed that even the knife and the saw could not part them from each other. And yet now he understands. One by one he feels his heartstrings snap, the violence of Will's words severing tendons and veins, clean and cruel as a butcher's blade. 

"I'm not going to look for you."

Hannibal's heart: untethered, torn loose in his chest, a slick fist of muscle pulling away from ribs and spine. Trailing nerves and blood vessels, still beating obscenely.

"I don't want to know where you are or what you're doing." 

He feels himself bleeding, life running out in a dark rush from the gap in his torso where his heart has come unseated. And yet, there is no blood.

"I don't want to think about you anymore."

There is no blood. The mechanical pump of his heart continues, but he can no longer feel it. It is no longer there for him to feel.

"Goodbye, Hannibal." 

Hannibal wants to say: _if you would send me away, then at least let me have my heart_. Doesn't want to leave it there on the floor of Will's home, to be nosed by dogs or swept away with the dust. But he doesn't say anything, because it is already far too late. All his surgical skills could not sew what's lost back into his chest. Instead he stands up and walks out of the house, and shuts the door behind him.

Outside the snow is starting to fall, and the moon is already visible in the darkening sky, full and pale. Hannibal turns his back on the little house, and does not look back.

_The fisherman cut his shadow away, and it went out into the world._

***

_"If indeed thou must drive me from thee, send me not forth without a heart. The world is cruel, give me thy heart to take with me."_

The first year he travels west, as he has not for many years. His footing is lost, his reality compromised; he needs to regain both in an environment that does not threaten him, somewhere he has been comfortable, but not vulnerable. Italy had been an appropriate choice, but his mistake had been to involve Bedelia. He has always been most himself while on his own.   

He is pleased to find Japan familiar, less changed than he might have expected. The cities are growing ever larger and the pace of life ever quicker, but no more or less than anywhere else. There is still a healthy respect for history and custom, and traditional arts are still practiced alongside more modern additions, or the two blended to pleasing effect. Hannibal's arrival as an enigmatic and refined foreigner affords him entry to society circles; his knowledge of Japanese culture removes many misgivings about his status as a newcomer. That he can speak the language passably is an additional mark in his favour, though he's sure Murasaki would have much to say about his pronunciation after all these years. 

He rents a home in Den-en-chofu, large by Tokyo standards, built in neo-classical Japanese style. He sets about building a new life under his new name: attends performances of opera and theatre, visits exhibitions and gallery shows, becomes acquainted with all the local markets and delicatessens. He throws intimate dinner parties for his newly acquired social circle, rapidly developing a reputation as a gracious host. He frequently considers redecorating the house to his own tastes, but somehow never quite gets further than the consideration. 

He travels, visits historic temples and public gardens, commits the clean lines and graceful forms to memory for later reproduction. At the temple of Kiyomizu-dera he stands on the edge of the veranda and considers the fall, the foolish or desperate jumpers that have leapt from it over the years, in the hope of having a wish granted. He thinks about the concept: _wanting_ something so very terribly.  

He goes to Aokigahara and walks in the cool stillness of the forest. It is very peaceful, and Hannibal can see why so many think it a good place to die. He fantasizes briefly about what he would do if he encountered a would-be suicide, perhaps an incipient hanging. The drop, the struggle - physically unavoidable regardless of intent - the choice to intervene or not. He can take little pleasure in the imagining. He thinks, unbidden, that Will would like it here, and finds that a more enticing fantasy. As always, the thought of Will pulls uncomfortable truth to the forefront: the only reason he came here was to add this place to his memory palace. Will would be surprised to find a forest in Hannibal's mind, and that idea pleases him. 

Months pass and winter draws in. Hannibal feels a restless stirring in his chest, a dull ache that rouses to sharper pitch when he allows himself to think on the previous winter; the cooling blood on his face, sharp in his nostrils; the wet drag of snow around his ankles; Will's dead weight in his arms; the peculiar tenderness that his vulnerability always woke in Hannibal, that desire to protect and possess. He looks around his still un-redecorated home, the impermanence of it all, and allows himself to know what he has always understood. He leaves without packing, and with no intention to return.

He finds himself, inconceivably and inevitably, on Will's porch. Warm light is glowing in the windows, and overhead the moon is a sliver in the cold sky. It has been precisely one year since he last stood here.

Will opens the door to his knock, light spilling out in a torrent around him. The gap behind Hannibal's ribcage aches fiercely, and he recalls his heart, cut out and lost in this place. Will's expression is guarded. Dogs are barking behind him, roused by the intrusion.

"I should call the police," he says.

"You should," Hannibal agrees. Will takes a long moment to look at him, eyes wary and assessing. Hannibal devours the sight of him, all the minute samenesses and differences; the wounds on his face have healed to pale scars; his cheeks have filled out a little, losing the gauntness of grief; his beard is thicker, unkempt.

"Wait here." He shuts the door.

Hannibal waits. Will may be calling the authorities, but he doubts it, and besides he has no choice; Will told him to wait, he will wait. After a few minutes he can smell coffee brewing inside the house. It's an inferior bean, dried too quickly before grinding, but Hannibal cannot imagine a more welcome aroma. A short time longer, and Will emerges, wearing a coat and a carefully composed expression. He is holding two mugs, one of which he offers to Hannibal. Hannibal understands that the goal of this ritual was not to make him feel welcome, but to allow Will time and space to settle his thoughts. Still: Will made him coffee. 

The silence draws out between them while Hannibal warms his hands on the cup. He watches Will, who is looking out intently across the dark landscape. Something screams in the distance, fox or rabbit, predator or prey. Hannibal has rarely needed to draw the distinction. Finally, one of them must break the silence.

"How are you, Will?"

Will laughs without humor.

"Is that why you came back? To ask how I am?"

"It seemed an appropriate question. When we last saw each other you were injured and traumatized. I can only hope that in the past year you have healed significantly, both physically and spiritually."

"I should have expected this," Will says, apropos of nothing. "I should've known you wouldn't stay away."

"Couldn't," Hannibal corrects him mildly. Will glances at him, gives a huff of annoyance that's so familiar Hannibal aches with it.

"Semantics," he says, then: "Why are you here?"

"I wanted to see you. I've thought of you often, in the last year. Have you thought of me, Will? Or has your resolve stood?"

Will doesn't answer, but his jaw tightens in a way Hannibal recognizes - intimately - as stubborn self-defense. How often has Will raised his defenses against Hannibal, both before and after he knew the truth of him? How often have all his forts failed him, his walls crumbling against the tide of Hannibal's acceptance and his own desires? 

He has never understood, as Hannibal does, that defensiveness is a strategy employed by those who have already lost. It is not something Hannibal has ever found himself with a need for. He has always found receptivity far more rewarding, accepting what others choose to give him of themselves and doing what he may with it. Only with Will, however, has he found himself with a desire for that acceptance to be reciprocated. To be seen, understood, wanted. 

Will has seen, and he has understood, and now his defensiveness says that perhaps, still, he wants. Hannibal only need find the correct part of himself to offer, something that Will can recognize reflected in himself, and yet something he will find himself able to accept. His shadow, but not cast too dark. 

"I met a man named Sagawa Issei in Tokyo," he says finally. "You may have heard of him."

"He killed a classmate while at the Sorbonne University," Will replies, his voice carefully even. "And over the course of several days, he ate her."

"He escaped criminal punishment due to a legal loophole, and instead spent fewer than five years in a mental health institution. On his release he became a minor celebrity, and made a living on his infamy for many years. Of course over the years public interest has waned, and Mr. Sagawa has found it difficult to gain regular employment. When I found him he was living in near-squalor, ranting about the difficulty of life as a known murderer and cannibal."

"Hannibal," Will says slowly. "What did you do?"

"I fed him to himself," Hannibal says. "Over the course of several days. Starting with his tongue, served as a carpaccio. His complaints truly were intolerable."

Will's brow furrows faintly, as if working out a difficult puzzle. He does not look at Hannibal.

"Why are you telling me this?" he asks. His voice is low, with cracks in it.

"I want you to understand," Hannibal tells him. "There doesn't have to be a dissonance between the self you long to be and the self you believe you should be. Sagawa was a murderer who profited from his crimes and never showed any genuine repentance. Can you truly regret his death?"

Will is folding in on himself, his body language directed inwards. He shuts his eyes, shakes his head.

"I told you, I can't share your appetite."

"Can't?" Hannibal asks. "Or won't?"

Will laughs again, barely a shaky exhalation.

"Like I said, semantics."

A pit opens in Hannibal's stomach, yawning desperation. Is this what the jumpers at Kiyomizu-dera feel? Will's eyes are open again, clear and looking directly at him. His chin is jutting, his defenses shored. 

"I'm sorry that you had a wasted trip," he says. Hannibal inclines his head calmly, though inside he can feel himself falling, a drop with no bottom visible. He hands Will the mug, its warmth long leached by the night air.

"Tell me Will," he says. "Was it at least good to see me?"

Will looks at him, long and unhurried, and his mouth twists minutely at the corners, a smile so sorrowful that Hannibal's heart might break, if he still had it. 

"Goodbye, Hannibal," he says once again, and goes inside the house, taking the light with him.

***

_“When thou didst send me forth into the world thou gavest me no heart, so I learned to do all these things and love them.”_

The second year he goes south. He has never spent much time in Brazil, and the unknown is what he needs now; an escape from anything familiar, anything that can rouse memories. A resource he can devour and exhaust and abandon, preferably somewhere he can more easily avoid the restrictions of law. A city he can take his frustrations out on. 

He foregoes Rio’s exclusive and gaudy beachside districts, and instead installs himself in a rambling colonial house on the hillside of Santa Teresa. The neighbourhood has an air of faded gentility, long abandoned by the upper class and sinking gently into dilapidation. Quaint art studios and cafes have sprung up like bright weeds in the ruins, cheerful and bohemian. He settles in without ostentation or fuss, draws no undue attention to his presence. If the residents of Santa Teresa think of him, it is as an eccentric and a loner. Most likely they do not think of him at all.

The house is too large by far, in good repair but with faded paintwork, threadbare carpets. He pays it little mind. He does not pretend that he is going to refurbish. He does not integrate himself into Rio de Janeiro’s polite society. He does not plan to stay here forever, nor does he plan a definite time frame to leave; he does not plan at all. Instead, he acts.  

The city is large, and there are so many tourists travelling alone, so many impoverished and marginalized residents of the slums, so many criminals who live short, violent lives. So many whose disappearance goes unremarked, unnoticed. It is almost too easy. If Will thinks him a monster, then he will be a monster: the beast in the belly of the city. If he cannot have his heart then he will grow himself a new one. Something cold and scaled, born in blood and wrapped in bone, secured against thieves within the vault of his ribs. He will not have it cut out again.

Some days he prowls the beaches of Ipanema or Leblon, sips cachaça at open air bars and charms tourists with tales of life as a dilettante expatriate, finds those are travelling alone, unexpected by anyone. Some nights he stalks the favelas, moving soundlessly through the shadows or stumbling loudly with pretended drunkenness. Either way, he need only wait for an opportunity to present itself beneath the looming bulk of Christ the Redeemer. 

He indulges himself endlessly, kills indiscriminately; not the rude or the deserving, simply whoever is unfortunate enough to cross his path. He uses a knife, a garotte, his bare hands. He tears with his teeth and nails, tastes blood in his mouth and feels it gritting on his skin. His kitchen and pantry are bursting at the hinges with fresh slaughter. And yet all of it fails to satisfy him, all the blood in the world insufficient to wash away his memories. 

Rio is heat and brightness, endless and oppressive. An itching, restless sensation crawls beneath his skin with winter's approach, settles there like a parasite, squirming and hungry. He is angry, he realizes. At himself, for his inability to forget, to move past, to be at peace in his own skin as he has been almost his entire life. At Will, for stealing that peace from him - irrational, yes, but entirely uncontrollable. 

He thinks bitterly of all he has offered to Will, all he has given and been willing to give. The sacrifice of a life painstakingly constructed, an unveiling of the self he had kept concealed from the entire world for so long, an opportunity to truly see and know. His heart. All those things he has given, and received what in return? His gifts rejected, cast aside or unrecognized entirely. He is tired of anger, and of memory, of mindless, unsatisfying carnage. He wants this to be at an end. If it is to be a zero sum game, then he does not intend to be the loser.

This time, he does not knock. 

It's night when Will returns, the house cold and dark. Will is less alert than he should be, doesn't recognize the dogs' pacing and low whines for anything more than restlessness or hunger. Tired, most likely, from a long day staring at crime scenes. Distracted by the latest killer in his head. He doesn't see Hannibal, doesn't sense his presence, and there is something painful in that; Hannibal can't imagine being in a room with Will and not knowing it. Hannibal walks silently, shoes removed and placed neatly by the fireplace. No plastic coverings, no gloves. He welcomes whoever will read this scene. 

The last time he tried this he took too long at it, gave himself too many chances to second guess, to step back from the edge. His motivation had been a muddy and confused thing, twisted by Bedelia's machinations and not truly his own. His anger now is white hot and focused, a force that leaves no room for question. Afterwards, he knows, there may be grief, but his rage will not be deterred. 

Will is standing by the sink in the dark, a glass of whisky in his hand, head bowed. At the last possible second he senses something, hears a whisper of cloth or catches a reflection in the window with the corner of his eye. His head jerks up in alarm. Hannibal's foot slams into the back of his knee, taking his right leg from under him. He goes down on one knee. Hannibal grabs a handful of hair and slams his forehead against the counter. 

Will hisses in pain, twists away from the hand still gripping his hair, lunges for something across the kitchen; something he thinks he can use as a weapon. Hannibal does not indulge him. He kicks out again, at the same spot as before, the weakened leg giving way too easily. Will is down again. Hannibal feels a fierce elation run through him, his reptile heart beating cool and steady as he kicks Will in the stomach once, twice. It would do more damage if he were wearing shoes, but there is a brutal satisfaction to it that he welcomes. 

Will rolls onto his side, coughing, struggling for each breath. His eyes are unfocused, still disoriented from the blow to his head.

"This doesn't work," he gasps. "You know this won't work."

Hannibal reaches into his pocket. The blade is a folding hunter's knife, nearly identical to one they had found in Garret Jacob Hobbs’ cabin. Will may appreciate that, at the last. Hannibal advances with savage purpose, knowing what needs to be done. Will's arm comes up, too quick to avoid, and the whisky glass slams against the side of Hannibal's head, shattering. He reels back, dazed, as Will gets his feet. Stands, and faces Hannibal.

A cut has opened on Will's forehead where it impacted the edge of the counter. Blood is trickling steadily down his face, over his lips. His tongue swipes across them distractedly. His entire body is taut and fierce with adrenaline, ready to fight. He is entirely and savagely beautiful. Hannibal wants to throw him down and tear at his skin, wants to open the scar on Will's belly with his nails, dig deep and deeper until he finds Will's heart, wants to devour it hot and beating, to replace the one so pitilessly torn from his own chest. He wants - 

His fingers shift on the knife. The righteous inferno of his rage wavers, indecision creeping in and damping down. He wants -  

"Hannibal," Will says, low and terrible. At something so innocuous, the sound of his own name, the reptile heart shivers itself naked behind his ribs. In an instant its scales shed themselves, a raw and vulnerable lump left in its place. He knows then that Will is right: such catharsis would change nothing. 

He glances around. Will's blood is on the counter, whisky and broken glass on the ground. Will's dogs are dancing frantically, whining and yelping. Will is watching him without anger, only steady caution and something that might be pity. His rage, Hannibal might face, but not this. Not now. He bolts, and Will makes no move to stop him. 

Fifty meters past the treeline, beneath the shadow of no moon, he realizes he's left his shoes behind.      

***

_“Once in his life may a man send his Soul away, but he who receiveth back his Soul must keep it with him for ever, and this is his punishment and his reward.”_

The third year he flees east. For lack of any more appealing option, Europe. He does not think of himself as an animal slinking back to familiar territory to lick its wounds. He will not allow himself such self pity. If nothing else, he has his dignity.

"Or is it just self pity masquerading as dignity?" Will asks, on the plane. "How would you tell the difference?" 

Scandinavia first, as if he might freeze these inconvenient passions from his blood. He is not unmoved by the cold beauty of the fjords, the pitiless expanse of the Arctic ocean beyond, yet he feels there is something superficial to his appreciation. At night he looks into the dark vastness of the sky, the ethereal shifting of the aurora borealis, and considers the smallness of humanity. 

"You're wallowing," Will tells him, his voice sardonic. His breath does not cloud the air, and he doesn't shiver in his thin shirt. Hannibal does not reply - _will_ not reply.

As spring turns Norway green he travels south, meandering slowly through the Netherlands and down into Germany. He avoids Berlin and Frankfurt, instead visiting small towns and villages, enjoying their low-key charms. Germany's cities have never sat well with his aesthetic sense. There is a laboured humility to them, as if in the aftermath of two world wars they are at pains to avoid any appearance of pride or ostentation that might offend. By contrast Vienna, with its bombastic magnificence, or the shabby elegance of Paris' older districts, make no apologies for their weight of imperial history. He _does_ consider Paris, briefly, but the obligations of family do not appeal.

Italy is impossible, so instead: Spain. He reaches Pamplona for the feast of Saint Fermin, the city thronged with revellers both local and foreign, all here for one purpose. They delight at the _gigantes y cabezudos_ , crowd around the food vendors' stalls and cheer at the nightly fireworks, but it is the _encierro_ for which they have come. Each day of the festival the bulls run, and the crowds scream, not even realizing that they are screaming for blood. 

Hannibal is right by the barrier on the third day as one of the runners is pinned, crushed against the wooden fence while onlookers try to pull him over. The bull stamps and snorts, crazed and intent, its eyes rolling madly. They get the young man over the barrier eventually, call for the doctors. He is bleeding, undoubtedly has cracked ribs and crushed organs, but Hannibal does not stay to see his fate.

Later he watches in the ring as the crowd clamors again for death, scream themselves hoarse for the thrill of violence. The _toreros_ dance around the bull, the beast bewildered and furious, not seeming to understand where the barbs that pierce its hide are coming from. By the end it stands with head bowed and flanks heaving, its skin slick with blood and sweat, reddened foam dripping from its mouth. Defeated, now. Hannibal wonders if it might be the same bull, its reprisals made in advance.   

"That doesn't make it fair," Will says. "The bull never volunteered for blood sport."

The _matador_ , magnificent in purple, delivers the killing blow with a flourish and the audience erupts in an ecstasy of bloodlust. The bull folds to the ground, just so much meat, and Will leans close to murmur in Hannibal's ear, as if anyone else might hear him.

"Nobody volunteers to be murdered."

Hannibal can live, he has decided, with this hollow ache in his chest. It is not such an unbearable thing, to be without his heart, though it feels so at times. What he cannot live with is the specter of Will Graham. His memory palace, spilling over into the real world, seams becoming cracks becoming yawning gaps where his pain bleeds out. He had resigned himself to visiting Will, in time, to seeing him within the confines of his mind, only a poor replica but as well made as Hannibal could make him. Instead, Will is encroaching on his every waking moment. 

Previously, Hannibal thinks, he had always maintained some unconscious certainty that he would not be parted from Will permanently. That he would find some way to mend the teacup, to rejoin shadow and body, to refill the gaping hole behind his ribs. He has tried to regain his self-sufficient civility, and has abandoned himself to reckless savagery. He has tried to appeal to the killer in Will, to justify his violent urges. And finally in despair he tried - as each man does - to kill the thing he loves. All of his efforts have failed, and so that leaves him where he stands now. Exiled, but constantly reminded. Haunted by his own mind. Grieving for a living man. This cannot be sustained.

In the autumn he travels on, retreads his path as far as Germany, then continues east. Through the Czech Republic into Poland as the weather grows chill, the landscape turning barren around him, stripping itself bare and brown with winter's encroachment. He feels drawn, summoned, as if this were inevitable from the very beginning. He feels unease, restless in his belly, something he thinks may be close to fear. And always, always: Will. At his side, impossible to contain, impervious to exorcism. If he goes far enough, he wonders, will this haunting be replaced by another? Would Mischa's specter be preferable to this?

The gates of the Lecter estate stand rusted and overgrown with greenery, leaning drunkenly against each other in the chill dawn. Hannibal looks at them, despairs, and knows that he must enter.

"I came here looking for you," Will tells him, resting a hand on the dew-damp metal. "Why are you here?"

Finally, Hannibal looks at him, acknowledges his ghostly presence for the first time in all this time.

"This is the last place I have left to go."

***

_“And as through the fulness of his love his heart did break, the Soul found an entrance and entered in, and was one with him even as before.”_

The windows of Will's house are dark. Hannibal ascends to the porch and leans on the railing, looking out over the fields. He understands now, how it must be. He cannot live as he had before he met Will, and he cannot live a life as if Will had never existed. The shadow belongs to the body, and cut away it is without form or purpose, only empty darkness. For the first time in three years, Hannibal feels at peace. He tips his head back to look at the stars, until he hears the click and creak of the door opening behind him. He turns.

Will is watching him from the dark doorway through shuttered eyes, carefully devoid of expression. He's wary. That is understandable. So close now to where he lost it, Hannibal feels his heart once again, its tattoo rapid and strong. His chest aches, his entire being.

"Hannibal," Will says. It's half a question.

Hannibal keeps his eyes on Will's as he slowly folds to his knees, raising his hands behind his head. He locks his fingers together to mask their faint, exhilarated trembling. 

"Hannibal?" Will asks.

"I found what you left for me," Hannibal tells him. "And now I want you to know where you can always find me."

Will opens his mouth, but before he can speak a word a siren wails distantly. Coming in from the main road, blue and red lights lance through the darkness. Will looks up at the approaching vehicles, then back to Hannibal. _Looks_ at him, the look that says Will sees him, as nobody else ever has. And in that instant he drops all his walls, dissolves all his forts, and lets Hannibal see him in return. 

What he sees is this: a raw tangle of emotions - fear, guilt, longing, so many more that cannot or should not be named. What he knows is this: these three years, Will has been wandering the wilderness as surely as Hannibal has. 

Hannibal's heart surges fiercely in his chest. This man, who fought sickness and delusion and the entire world for his sanity. This man who Hannibal has dealt so many wounds, who bears his scars with relentless fortitude. This man who has never turned his face from the truth. This man, who created a work of art in a cellar, expecting no one to ever see the beauty of his design. For this man, he will sell himself into a cage, and consider it a bargain well struck.  

The uniformed officers surround him, barking orders, but he barely hears them. Metal cuffs snap around his wrists, and he hardly feels them. He keeps his eyes on Will's as they pull him to his feet, as they drag him towards the car, as long as he can. Will never drops his gaze. 

As the car pulls away towards the main road, Hannibal leans against the window and looks back. He sees the house, its windows still dark, but now floodlit by vehicle headlamps. He sees Will, still standing on the porch and ignoring the officers who have begun prodding him with questions. 

Over the crest of the roof, the moon is rising, pale and gibbous. In a few days, it will be full. 


End file.
